Love and Chaos Read Free

again, right? I’m a grown-up. Adult. Whatever. The point is, we’re not fucking twelve.
    “Actually, I’m happy, too. My boss said ‘great job’ again today. That’s the second time this year!” Julia looks insanely proud, and spills pasta sauce on her suit jacket. “Fuck! Every fucking time!”
    “Does anyone want herbal tea?” says Madeleine, standing up.
    I raise my glass. “Could you dunk the tea bag in my vodka?”
    Madeleine gazes at me. “Is that a withering look?” I say. “Because it needs practice. You just look a bit lost and constipated. Maybe you should—Oh, no, wait. Now that’s withering.”
    Madeleine ignores me.
    “How about you, Coconut?” I look over at Coco. “Good day shaping young hearts and minds?”
    She grins at me, all freckles and blond bob and oven mitts, and her usual layers and layers of dark “hide me!” clothes. “I got peed on.”
    “Someone took a piss on you?” I pause. “People pay good money for that.”
    “Ew! Gross! He is four years old! And it was a mistake. I hope.”
    No one asks me how my day was, and they all go back to their own things, so I get up and open the freezer, where I always keep a spare bottle of Belvedere, and fix myself another three-finger vodka on the rocks, with a slice of cucumber and a few crumbs of sea salt. My dad taught me this drink; we drank it together at the Minetta Tavern last time he was in Manhattan, about a month ago. But he didn’t say anything about a divorce.
    Cheers to me.
    Several swigs later, I take a cigarette out of my pack and prop it in the corner of my mouth, and look around at the girls, so calm and happy together, so sure of one another and their place in the world. I can’t remember the last time I felt like that. Is there anything worse than feeling alone when you’re surrounded by your friends?
    My phone buzzes. Finally! A text from Stef. Just woke up. Making a plan. xoxo
    It’s weird the way he ends texts with xoxo, I think, making myself another drink. He’s like a chick.
    “Oh, Angie, there’s mail for you.” Julia points at some packages on the sideboard. “What the hell do you keep ordering?”
    “Stuff.” I start opening them. Buttons from a little store in Savannah, a bolt of yellow cotton from a dress shop in Jersey, and a gorgeous 1930s ivory lace wedding dress that I bought for two hundred dollars on eBay when I was drunk last weekend.
    Julia screws her face up at the dress. “Wow. That is fucking disgusting.”
    This riles me up for some reason, though the shoulder pads and puffed sleeves are a little Anne of Green Gables meets Dynasty. “This lace is exquisite,” I snap. “And the bodice structure is divine, so I’m gonna take the sleeves off and make a little top.”
    “Good luck with that,” says Julia, with a laugh in her voice, which annoys me more.
    “I’m not taking fashion advice from someone who wears a double-breasted green pantsuit to work.”
    “This pantsuit is from Macy’s! And who died and made you Karla Lagerfeld?”
    “You mean Karl Lagerfeld.”
    “I know that! I was making a joke.”
    “Really? What was the punch line?”
    “Kids, play nice,” says Pia, a warning in her voice.
    “I am nice,” says Julia. “Angie’s the one living in a vodka-fueled dream world. I can’t even remember the last time I saw her sober.”
    “That is a total lie! I was sober when I saw you this morning! As you headed out the door with your pantsuit and gym bag and laptop like the one percent banker drone that you are!”
    “Okay, that’s enough!” Pia says. “Both of you say you’re sorry and make up.”
    I stand up. “Fuck that. I’m out of here.”
    I slug my vodka, run upstairs, throw on my sexiest white dress from Isabel Marant, some extremely high heels, my fur/army coat, take a moment to smear on some more black eyeliner, and stomp down to the front door. I love wearing white. It makes me feel clean and pure, like nothing can touch me.
    I can hear the girls